Dead Eyes

by Stuart Woods

  His gaze was as Moscowitz had described it: flat and dead. Larsen pushed open the screen and let him into the house. Neither man offered to shake hands.

  “Nice place,” Parker said, looking around.

  “Thanks.”

  “So, what do we need here?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Parker handed him a pair of brochures. “These are two systems we offer; one is pretty basic, the other can expand to be as elaborate as you like. Why don’t you take a look at those while I have a look around?”

  “Sure,” Larsen said. He didn’t glance at the brochures. Instead, he followed Parker at a discreet distance while the man wandered around the house, inside and out, and made notes on a clipboard.

  Parker was not a large man, but he was well-built, with the look of someone who’d gotten his physique from hard work, not lifting weights in a gym. In spite of his repaired lip and defective gaze, he was not an unattractive person. He was cool, too, Larsen had to concede. To walk right in here and pretend he didn’t know who he was talking to took a tightly controlled psyche.

  Larsen had the pistol in a shoulder holster and his jacket on, and he was unable to prevent the fantasy of shooting Parker in the back of the head from flitting through his mind.

  When they were back where they started, Parker sat at the bar and worked up his estimate. Larsen stood in the kitchen, watching him with real fascination. When Parker had finished, he tore off a carbon copy and pushed it across the counter. Larsen picked it up and glanced at it. “How about a beer?” he asked.

  “Why not? It’s the end of my day.”

  It’s closer to the end than you know, Larsen thought. He took two Carta Blancas from the fridge and grabbed two glasses.

  “No glass for me,” Parker said, but it was too late; Larsen had already started to pour.

  Larsen shoved the glass across the bar and waited for Parker to pick it up. Parker didn’t hesitate.

  “Take a look at what I’ve done,” he said, nodding at the paper. “I’ve used a combination of window and screen sensors, depending on what was already there. Every door is covered, there’s a motion detector in here…” He paused. “…and a panic button next to the bed in the master bedroom.” He met Larsen’s gaze straight on.

  “I guess that’s a useful place to have a panic button,” Larsen said.

  “Everybody’s prone to panic—under the right circumstances,” Parker said.

  “What happens if the alarm goes off?” Larsen asked, though he didn’t much care.

  “A signal is transmitted to our central office, and we telephone you. If there’s no answer, we call the cops; if you answer, we expect to hear a code word from you, and if we don’t hear it we call the cops. If the panic button goes off, we call the cops immediately.” He took a pen from his shirt pocket and made ready to write. “What would you use for a code word?” he asked.

  “How about Admirer?” Larsen asked.

  Parker’s strange eyes showed no reaction. He wrote down the word on the form. “Oh,” he said, “there are two smoke alarms included, too. That’s important.”

  “Yeah,” Larsen said, glancing at the form.

  “I think you’ll have a hard time beating the price,” Parker said. “Twenty-seven hundred even, tax included. What business are you in?”

  “I’m in the cop business,” Larsen replied.

  “It’s good you realize that even a cop needs security,” Parker said. He stopped smiling, but the teeth were still there. “Even a piece under your arm isn’t always enough to protect you.”

  “A cop has a lot more going for him than a piece,” Larsen said. “Street scum have a way of forgetting that.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Parker said, smiling again, “you’ve got all that scientific backup these days, haven’t you? Computers and stuff.”

  Larsen smiled back. “Mostly we have other cops. Cops don’t take it lightly when somebody screws with one of their own.”

  Parker laughed aloud. “One for all and all for one, huh?” He laughed again.

  There was a large kitchen knife near Larsen’s right hand, and it was all he could do to keep from grabbing it and plunging it into Parker’s throat. “We always laugh last,” Larsen said. “Always.”

  “Whatever you say,” Parker said, glancing at his watch in a manner that was bored and dismissive. “Well, thanks for the beer,” he said, standing up and strolling toward the door.

  Larsen followed him to the door. “It was the least I could do for the chance to meet you.”

  “Be sure and let me hear from you,” Parker said, walking out the door.

  “Oh, you’ll hear from me, when you least expect it,” Larsen called after him.

  Parker didn’t turn, but raised a hand and gave a limp wave. He got into his gray Ford van and drove away.

  Larsen crossed the room quickly. With one finger he tipped Parker’s beer glass, then got another finger under the bottom. Using just the two fingers, he held the glass up to the light.

  “YES!!!” he shouted.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Larsen went in to work feeling better than he had in weeks, with Parker’s beer glass in a Ziploc bag beside him on the front seat. He parked the car in the garage under the building and, unwilling to wait for the elevator, ran up the stairs to his office, clutching the plastic bag tightly.

  He went straight to the fingerprint team, but he was greeted by two empty desks in their office. A secretary walked past in the hall.

  “They’re on a job,” she said.

  “When will they be back?”

  “My best guess is after lunch.”

  Larsen emitted a grunt of frustration. He went to Elgin’s desk, set the glass on it, and wrote a note requesting an immediate comparison with the Millman guest house print. ASAP! he added.

  He went back to his office, hung up his coat, and dug in his bottom drawer for a warrant form.

  Chief of Detectives Herrera stuck his head in the door. “What’s happening with the Callaway case?” he demanded.

  “I expect to ID the perp this afternoon; I’m typing up the warrant now.”

  “About fucking time,” Herrera said. “Send me your report the minute you get in from making the arrest.”

  “Yessir,” Larsen said, and rolled the warrant form into his typewriter. This was going to be a very favorable bust for him, and the papers were going to eat it up. Larsen didn’t care much about the papers, but he knew that Herrera did, and it would gall the chief to see a subordinate getting the space. He knew a reporter at the Times who would give it big play. He’d arrange for the woman to “accidentally” be at the station when he brought in Parker, then Herrera couldn’t accuse him of seeking out the reporter.

  Larsen typed the warrant with a light heart.

  Chris and Melanie picked up Danny from Cedars-Sinai at mid-afternoon in Melanie’s station wagon. Danny gave both of them a big hug and kiss, then hobbled out to the car on crutches that were a little too long.

  “Danny, there have been developments,” Chris said as she settled him into the backseat.

  “Tell me.”

  “Jon has identified Admirer.”

  “Who is the sonofabitch?”

  “It’s a man named Mel Parker—the same Mel from Keyhole Security in Santa Monica who installed the alarm system at the new house. He’s the guy in the gray Ford van. Jon got his fingerprints last night, and he’s going to make the arrest this afternoon.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Danny muttered under his breath.

  “Sorry,” Chris said, “I didn’t get that.”

  “I need to make a stop, Chris, and I’m all out of wheels. Do you and Melanie mind?

  “Not at all,” Chris said.

  “Glad to,” Melanie echoed.

  “Oh, Danny, I brought your checkbook, as you asked.” She handed him the folder.

  “Thanks, Chris. I want to go to the BMW dealer on Santa Monica Boulevard.”

  “A
re you going to buy a new car?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be driving the old one soon, and I’ve always wanted a BMW, so what the hell?”

  “Go for it,” Melanie said.

  When they reached the dealership, Danny struggled out of the car.

  “We’ll wait for you,” Chris said.

  “No need; I’m planning to drive the new car home.”

  “Danny, isn’t it a little soon? You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

  “I’ll take it easier when I have this off my mind,” he said. “I’ll see you back at the house; I should be home in a couple of hours. Do you mind waiting if I’m late, Melanie?”

  “It’s okay,” Chris said. “Jon’s coming over after work, and we’ll hear everything.”

  “Great, see you later.” Danny hobbled into the dealership. There was a black sedan of the Five series on the floor. Danny opened the door and got behind the wheel. Beautiful.

  A salesman approached. “Yes, sir, a beauty, isn’t it?”

  “What’s your lowest cash price?” Danny asked.

  “Let me do some figuring,” the salesman said.

  Danny looked at the man. “I don’t want to dance; I want to buy a car.”

  “I can probably manage a six-percent discount,” the man said.

  Danny had been reading up on the car, and he knew what the markup was. “Make it eight percent, and you’ve made a sale.”

  “I’d have to talk with my manager,” the man said.

  “Remind him that the Mercedes dealer is just down the street,” Danny said.

  The man scurried away and came back with the manager, who took a deep breath.

  Danny held up a hand. “Don’t start. I know what this car cost you, and I want eight percent off. I’ll pay sales tax and documentation, but don’t talk to me about paint sealants and floor mats. I’ll give you a check; you can call the bank. Is it a deal or not?”

  “Nothing to trade? No financing?” the manager asked.

  “Straight cash.”

  The manager shook his head. “That’s a little close to the bone for me,” he said.

  Danny got out of the car, shoved the door shut with a crutch, and aimed himself at the door.

  “All right, all right,” the man called after him. “Deal.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Danny drove his new car out of the dealership and up Santa Monica toward La Cienega. A couple of blocks up the street, he saw the sign—he’d looked up the address while he was waiting for the car. He smiled tightly and gave the sign a wave as he drove past.

  On La Cienega he pulled up in front of the shop where he’d bought Chris’s gun, got out of the car, and swung into the building, wrestling with the swinging glass door.

  “Mr. Devere, isn’t it?” the man behind the counter said.

  “Right. I’m in the market for some more fire-power.”

  “Something specific in mind?”

  “The only handgun I’ve ever fired was a Colt .45 automatic, and that was nearly twenty years ago, in the navy.”

  “I’ve got a nice used one,” the man said, opening a showcase.

  “No, no, that’s too heavy for me. I used to have to fire the goddamned thing with both hands. I want something lighter, but I want plenty of stopping power.”

  “Long range or close?”

  “Close,” Danny said. “I’m no marksman.”

  “New or used?”

  “It’s only going to be fired once, so used should do it.”

  “Let’s keep it simple, then,” the man said, removing a snub-nosed revolver from the case. “Smith & Wesson .38 Special, the old detective’s favorite. Use a soft-nosed load and it’ll stop a water buffalo in his tracks. It’s two-fifty—no, you’re becoming a good customer; we’ll say two hundred.”

  “Sold. And give me a box of soft-nosed cartridges for the pistol.”

  “Holster?” the salesman asked. “Got a nice clip-on for your belt.”

  “Throw that in, too.”

  While the salesman wrapped his purchases, Danny wrote a check. He clipped the holster onto his belt, shoved the pistol into it, picked up the ammunition, and left the shop.

  Back in his car, Danny loaded the pistol and holstered it. He drove back to Santa Monica Boulevard, found Keyhole Security, and parked the car so that he could see the little parking area in front of the building. The gray Ford van was parked there. All he had to do now was wait.

  CHAPTER

  38

  It was after three before Larsen got a call from the secretary in fingerprinting.

  “They’re back,” she said, and hung up.

  Larsen tried to keep from hurrying but failed. When he arrived at the office Elgin was hunched over a lightbox with a loupe. “Just a second,” he said to Larsen.

  While Larsen was waiting, Chief of Detectives Herrera strolled up. “Got your perp ID’ed?” he asked.

  Larsen nodded toward Elgin.

  Elgin stood up straight. “Congratulations, Jon,” he said. “You got three real pretty prints there—first, second, and third fingers.”

  Larsen heaved a sigh of relief and produced his warrant. “I’m going to go get this signed,” he said to Herrera. “I’ll want backup for the arrest.”

  “Hang on,” Elgin said. “These are beautiful prints, but they don’t match the one from the Millman guest house.”

  “What?” Larsen said weakly.

  “The prints from the glass are not from the same guy as the print from the guest house. Maybe it was the cleaning lady’s print or Millman’s. Who knows?”

  Larsen tried not to sag in front of his boss; he knew he had turned red.

  “So where are you now?” Herrera asked.

  “Well, I’m better off than I was last week,” Larsen replied. “At least I know who the guy is.”

  Herrera shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Chief, I want to surveil him.”

  Herrera looked at him in disgust. “You know I haven’t got the manpower for a proper surveillance. You’ve let this case suck up all your time, and now you want to suck up everybody else’s. You want to surveil him, do it yourself.”

  “I can’t do it properly alone,” Larsen said.

  “Then do it half-assed, the way you do everything else,” Herrera said, and stalked off before Larsen could reply.

  Elgin shrugged. “Sorry, Jon; I thought you had your man for a minute there.”

  Danny had almost dozed off when he saw the gray van move. It backed out of its place, left the parking lot, and turned west on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Danny got his car started and, after waiting for a lot of cars to pass, executed a quick and illegal U-turn. The van was almost to the beach before Danny caught up with it.

  He slapped his forehead. If he was going to follow the guy, he certainly couldn’t do it like he was hooked to his bumper. He dropped back and let a car get between them.

  At the beach, the van turned left and headed south toward Venice. Danny followed, making certain to stay well back. The van headed into Venice, the neighborhood of canals and small houses near the beach. It made a couple of turns, then moved into a street a little shabbier than the others, and finally stopped before a freshly painted bungalow surrounded by a high chain-link fence. As Danny got closer to the van an electric gate opened, and the van drove into the garage. The gate closed behind it.

  Danny stopped and waited for Parker to come out of the garage. He looked up and down the street; no one in sight. Danny wasn’t very mobile, so he would call the man to the fence and shoot from the car, a distance of no more than eight feet. As he waited he looked up and saw strands of razor wire entwined in the spires of the iron fence. A sign at the front gate read GUARD DOG ON DUTY. The man was certainly security-conscious.

  Parker never came out; he must have entered the house directly from the garage. Next door, two small boys came outside and began to play with a dog. Cursing, Danny drove away.

  Chris sat with her tape recor
der and worked on dictating her screenplay while Melanie typed up the pages. The novel was short and ideally structured for a film, so the work had gone quickly. The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Jack. I’ve tracked down the agent who represents Karen Copeland, and he’s willing to option the book for a year for ten thousand dollars against a purchase price of a hundred thousand, second year’s option five thousand, not to apply to the purchase price. I think it’s reasonable; want me to go ahead?”

  “Oh, yes, please, Jack! Oh, thank God! If I’d done all this work and not been able to get the rights I’d shoot myself!”

  “Don’t do that, sweetie.”

  “Jack, I’m almost done with a first draft, and I’d like for you and Ron to read it.”

  “Sure, send it over.”

  “We’ll have it typed up soon, and I will. I’m anxious for your opinion. I’ll send you a check for the ten thousand, too.”

  “Fine. How’s it going otherwise?”

  “Very well; my vision is improving, and I want to go back to work before long.”

  “Good news. I gotta run. ’Bye.”

  “’Bye.”

  Chris hung up as Melanie came into the room. “We’ve got the rights!” she crowed.

  “That’s wonderful, Chris!”

  “As soon as you can get it typed up, send a copy to Jack and one to Ron, and we’ll get this show on the road.” She heard a car pull up outside. “See who that is, will you?” Involuntarily, she felt for the pistol in the pocket of her jeans.

  “It’s Danny,” Melanie called from the front door, “and he’s driving a really terrific BMW. And here comes Jon, too.”

  “Great, I can tell everybody the news.” Chris heard Danny struggle through the door with his crutches and Jon’s low voice behind him.

  Both men came into the room, and when Danny had been settled on the sofa, Jon sank into the wing chair opposite Chris.

  “Why is everybody so cheerful?” Chris asked. Something was clearly wrong.

  “You first, Danny,” Jon said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Danny replied.

  “Jon, what’s wrong?” Chris asked.